Canvas

by Raina (raina_at@yahoo.de)

Archive: yes please, M-A; nuttersinc (elsewhere please ask for distribution)

Paring: Q/O

Category: PWP

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Fiend in Flannel. No money made.

Feedback: always welcome at raina_at@yahoo.de

Summary: Pure smut. Gratuitous Qui-worship.

Notes: My own take on Spiral!Qui, Tem-ve.

Thank you's: Tem-ve for the beta and the inspiration and Lea for being my rock.

It's quite warm in the room, which is more than Qui-Gon expected. The fire's been stoked and someone even provided bowls with glowing embers of coals in them, but if he looks closely, and especially when he smells the air, he realises that these bowls aren't supposed to merely bring warmth. The dried herbs are probably a part of the cleansing ritual he's had to go through earlier, but they make Qui- Gon's head spin ever so slightly.

He dimly wonders where Obi-Wan is as he tests the bonds that tie him to the frame. To his surprise, he finds that he is actually rather comfortable. Again he reminds himself that these people have no desire whatsoever to hurt him. It's an honour to be asked to perform this ritual, and it will greatly help Jedi credibility in the upcoming negotiations. Still, Qui-Gon wishes he hadn't been picked to perform it. Granted, he has been through worse, but his dignity and modesty are more important to Qui-Gon Jinn than perhaps they should be. Something to meditate on when this is over.

The flap of the tent opens and admits a burst of cold air together with Obi-Wan. Blue-green eyes allow themselves a short appreciative journey over Qui-Gon's self-consciously naked body before they meet his Master's.

Qui-Gon can't help a smile. "Why do we always end up in situations like this?" he asks, moving his wrists to draw attention to his bonds.

Obi-Wan smiles back but keeps his eyes on Qui-Gon's. "I don't know. The price of being good at what we do, I guess."

Qui-Gon tsks. "Humility, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan suppresses a chuckle. "Yes, Master."

"What are you doing here anyway?" Qui-Gon asks to distract himself from the fact that he's lecturing his Padawan while his wrists and ankles are strapped to a frame and he is stark naked.

Obi-Wan steps closer and holds up the wooden bowl he's carrying. The black substance within looks like and may very well be ink. A brush lies on top of it.

Qui-Gon looks up, hope surging up. "They'll let you do it?"

Obi-Wan nods.

Qui-Gon breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank the Force. How did you get them to let you?"

Obi-Wan sets down the bowl and steps closer to Qui-Gon, looking him up and down. Awareness sparks between them, awareness of Qui-Gon's nakedness and helplessness and Obi-Wan's not-so-hidden enjoyment of the situation. It makes Qui-Gon's head spin more pleasantly than the herbs. Obi-Wan steps into Qui-Gon's personal space, breath ghosting over Qui-Gon's skin. He lays one cool hand on Qui-Gon's naked hip and meets his Master's eyes. "I told one of the elders in a private moment that I wasn't all too happy with some stranger painting my lover's naked body. So they agreed that since you were, and I quote, 'taken', your lover should be the one to sanctify you for speaking to the gods."

Taken. Qui-Gon swallows. The room seems a lot warmer now. Taken. He shivers slightly as Obi-Wan's hand traces his hipbones. Blue-green eyes hold his. Taken. The word lies between them, heavily, and Qui- Gon knows that they both like the sound and thought of it. The suggestion of Obi-Wan's right to his body, Obi-Wan's right and privilege to touch him, to mark him, to give him over to the gods or withhold the gift causes Qui-Gon's skin to tingle.

Qui-Gon leans in a fraction, asking. Obi-Wan answers, closing the distance between them as they share a kiss. Qui-Gon doesn't even try to take control of the kiss, he lets his lips be coaxed apart and explored by Obi-Wan's tongue, surrendering to the claim.

He didn't expect the surrender to be this easy. But then his trust in Obi-Wan makes it easy, perfectly natural even to let the claim stand, to accept it as the truth it is. Taken.

Just a word, but words have power, concepts have power. And here he is, immobilised, bound, waiting for Obi-Wan to begin the ritual, to take control of the situation.

Obi-Wan steps back and licks his lips, his eyes roaming over Qui-Gon more freely now. He takes up the hair clasp and fastens Qui-Gon's hair in a loose bun so that it will be out of the way. He takes a step back, surveying the delightful expanse of skin.

He takes up the bowl with the paint and the brush and approaches Qui- Gon. The herb woman has done the washing and the shaving, but Obi-Wan will paint the ancient symbols that mark Qui-Gon as the one chosen to sacrifice the holy animal tomorrow at dawn, asking the gods for their benediction of the coming negotiations.

Obi-Wan picks up the brush, and Qui-Gon anticipates the feel of it on his skin. His Padawan smiles, a warm, mischievous, delicious little smile Qui-Gon wants to lick from his lips but can't because he is bound to the frame.

He asked the purpose of the frame, and was told that it's here for his convenience, so that he won't have to hold his arms up while he's painted. Somehow, he finds that hard to believe right now.

Obi-Wan draws the brush over the back of his own hand, trying it out. He looks up at Qui-Gon and raises his eyebrows. "Interesting sensation."

Then he licks the back of his hand where the paint has smudged his skin. "Interesting taste."

Qui-Gon frowns at him and opens his mouth to speak, but Obi-Wan silences him with a finger over his lips. "Don't worry, it's organic paint. It tastes a little bitter, but it's quite harmless." The smile is back, burning through Qui-Gon in its suggestive power.

Qui-Gon shivers in anticipation.

Obi-Wan takes the bowl and the brush and steps behind Qui-Gon. A small puff of breath at the nape of his neck, a deep exhalation that tells him Obi-Wan is centring himself to steady his hand. Then, the brush touches the nape of his neck. The shiver travels down his spine. It is everything he thought it would be. Cold and wet and ticklish and utterly delicious. A small drop escapes but is caught by the brush and led into the next stroke of the character forming on the back of his neck. Obi-Wan breathes on the wet paint and moves on, a few centimetres down Qui-Gon's spine. He dips the brush in the paint, then runs it over Qui-Gon's skin, writing the next character.

Qui-Gon lets himself fall into the steadiness, the rhythm of Obi- Wan's breathing, of the strokes and dips and sensations. Drops of paint run down his back, escaping the characters, and Obi-Wan follows them with his tongue, cleaning Qui-Gon's skin of the offending paint. The cold of the paint, the hot tongue chasing it, the sizzling eroticism of the situation make Qui-Gon dizzy with languid arousal. Even if he could, he knew it would be pointless to hide his hardness. The ritual has taken a backseat in his mind. Now he is only aware of the experience. The sensations. The tension of desire running through him.

The room is quiet except for the crackling of the fire and their breaths, heavy and warm. Obi-Wan's eyes are as tangible on him as the brush, the breath, the kisses to the bumps of his spine Obi-Wan is painting.

A last character to the small of his back. An errant drop escapes into the crack of his bottom. Obi-Wan traces its path lightly with his finger, then withdraws the teasing touch. Qui-Gon hears him kneel down and gasps as the paint touches the cheek of his arse. Obi-Wan draws the brush from the top of the cheek around it to the crease where it meets his thigh.

Then, slowly, he dips the brush into the paint and runs it through the hidden valley of flesh between the cheeks. Qui-Gon lets his head fall back and gives himself over to the sensation as the brush strokes over his opening. Obi-Wan draws the brush up again and paints inward in a spiral on the cheek he's already marked. He blows on the paint and then plants a bite to the centre of the spiral.

Qui-Gon suppresses a moan. This is more than delicious; it is brain- meltingly arousing, mostly because it is completely unnecessary. Qui- Gon will be clothed from the hips down during the ceremony. Only the two of them will ever know that Obi-Wan has marked this part of Qui- Gon as well.

Obi-Wan paints the other cheek as well, and again he bites the centre of the spiral, and again he teases the opening of Qui-Gon's body with the wet brush. And again, Qui-Gon bites his lips to keep from begging.

A last caress, a last brush of paint-smudged fingers over the cheeks of his arse, and Obi-Wan gets up from the floor.

He steps in front of Qui-Gon and their eyes meet. In a flash, Qui-Gon sees himself through Obi-Wan's eyes. Painted, aroused, bound. Obi- Wan's desire shivers down his marked skin and burns in his mind.

Oh Force, it feels good to be desired like this. Obi-Wan's arousal is the most powerful drug Qui-Gon knows, it goes to his head and makes him feel light-headed and heavy-bodied, extremely aware of every inch of his skin.

Obi-Wan takes up the brush again, draws it up over Qui-Gon's ribs and flanks, and he quivers with the sensation, can't stop quivering as Obi-Wan paints bold strokes across his belly, the other side of his ribcage, can't stop looking away from the expression of concentrated lust in Obi-Wan's eyes.

Obi-Wan's fingers are black with ink as he catches an errant drop running into Qui-Gon's navel. He drops the brush and traces patterns over Qui-Gon's lower belly with his fingers, fascinated by the tremble of muscles Qui-Gon can't control. He seems oblivious of the heavy erection so near his wandering hands, but Qui-Gon knows better than that. Obi-Wan is very aware of Qui-Gon's arousal, Qui-Gon can see Obi-Wan's own hardness, not quite hidden by his Jedi leggings.

Obi-Wan bends down to pick up the brush and slides against Qui-Gon's erection as if by accident. Qui-Gon can't suppress a groan. It's the first sound either of them has made since Obi-Wan started to paint. Obi-Wan looks up, staring at him intently, daring him to say something, to ask Obi-Wan to do what he really wants him to do right now, but Qui-Gon holds his tongue. He will wait. He will take what Obi-Wan gives him. Gladly.

Qui-Gon trusts Obi-Wan with his life and his heart, and he will prove to Obi-Wan that he trusts him with his body and his pleasure as well.

Obi-Wan smiles, as if he's picked up that last thought, and leans in, feathering a kiss on Qui-Gon's lips. He sets the brush between Qui- Gon's eyes and paints a character on his brow, then gets on tiptoes and kisses away the drop that threatens to run down Qui-Gon's nose.

Qui-Gon smiles back, tenderly. It still dimly amazes him how much he loves this man. Obi-Wan smudges his paint-stained fingers over Qui-Gon's lips, then leans in for a long, paint-flavoured kiss. One of his hands is fisting in Qui-Gon's hair, the other is curling around Qui-Gon's hips.

Dazed, eyes dilated with arousal, Obi-Wan draws back and takes up the brush again. Qui-Gon whimpers as the wet brush touches first one nipple, then the other. Obi-Wan treats the delicate nubs to little flicks of the brush, drawing small, intricate characters on the sensitive skin.

A bolt of thick, pure pleasure shoots through Qui-Gon as Obi-Wan starts to lazily stroke his cock while blowing on Qui-Gon's wet, painted nipples to make the paint dry.

Qui-Gon inhales a shuddering breath. He's not sure how much more of this he can take without begging, but he bites his lips again and remains silent.

Obi-Wan draws back to survey his work of art, and again, Qui-Gon sees himself through Obi-Wan's eyes, the paint on his lips, on his hips, on his cock. Obi-Wan's fingerprints on his body. The word flashes between them again. Taken.

Obi-Wan kneels down, brush forgotten, and runs his hands over Qui- Gon's hips, where the fingerprints stand out like bruises against his smooth, pale skin. He feels the spike of arousal from Obi-Wan and then he feels nothing but pure, unadulterated bliss as Obi-Wan's lips close around his cock, as he vanishes in moist heat that threatens to consume him in a storm of sensual overload. He is trapped in a vortex of sensation, wet, hot, slick sucking warmth around his cock, clutching hands on his hips, the cold, filmy drying paint all over his body Obi-Wan's eyes on the marks that stake his claim over Qui- Gon's body, Obi-Wan's fierce possessive desire of him, and all it takes is one swallow and he tumbles over the edge with a wordless, senseless groan, feeling distantly as Obi-Wan falls with him, collapsing against Qui-Gon's legs. His eyes slide shut and his bones turn as liquid as his brain and he is glad of the bonds that hold him upright when he would have collapsed on the floor and into Obi-Wan's arms.

He comes back to himself when Obi-Wan kisses him, sharing the taste of bitter paint and come with Qui-Gon, who eagerly welcomes the intruding tongue. The kiss is all shared breath and warmth, sloppy, satiated and lazy, and as they break apart, Obi-Wan smiles his warmest, most radiant smile, the one that makes Qui-Gon fall in love with him over and over again.

"I know," Obi-Wan whispers before Qui-Gon can say it. He picks up the brush from where it's fallen out of his fingers and draws it across his lips. He kisses the spot over Qui-Gon's heart, printing his lips on Qui-Gon's body. Then he paints the last character over the spot where his lips have been.

He looks up at Qui-Gon and smiles. "Mine," he whispers, drops the brush and reiterates his claim with a long, lazy, delicious, paint- stained kiss.